


I'm no Fred (but I can make your bed rock, baby)

by sarahcakes613



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Food, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 13:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/pseuds/sarahcakes613
Summary: You know that tumblr post that's like, "what's with the obsession with calling food or recipes 'better than sex'...I tried your pinterest risotto and frankly, I'm wondering if your needs are being met."? Well, Sandor feels the same way.





	I'm no Fred (but I can make your bed rock, baby)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyEggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/gifts).

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY MOODLE LOVE.

It starts because no one has ever successfully accused Sandor Clegane of backing down from a challenge.

It doesn’t matter that the challenge is self-imposed and no one but him knows about it. There are principles at stake here.

And gods be good, the outcome will be sweet if he is successful. Which he will be. Because no one has also ever successfully accused Sandor Clegane of being a bad lay.

He first hears about the better-than-sex cake when he’s sorting junk from real post at the community mailbox. He hears voices, two women chatting as they walk up, mail keys in hand. He stands to the side, doesn’t bother trying to smile at them. Neither spares a glance for the tall broody fellow who’s just moved in to the old Harren estate.

“So, _I_ said, _I _said, well, maybe you need to go talk to your _secretary_ about your wrinkled shirts, and _he_ said, that wasn’t her job, so _I_ said well it sure looked like that to _me_, and then _he_ called _me_ unreasonable, can you _believe??_”

The woman speaking is shrill, every movement jerky as she yanks open her post box, rifles through the papers. Her companion is a good decade younger, and she makes sympathetic noises as she checks her own mail.

“You should come to the community picnic tomorrow,” she suggests, snapping her gum. She glances over to Sandor, leans in to her friend and lowers her voice. “I heard Sansa signed up to bring her cake.” She looks meaningfully at the older woman, who titters.

“Oh, I’ll be there, you can count on that. I wouldn’t miss that cake for anything! Honestly, it’s no wonder she calls it her better-than-sex cake. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything as delicious as that cake!”

Both women laugh, in that stock photos and yoghurt commercials way, heads tilted up, mouths wide open. Sandor turns to go home, but not without first reading the flyer that is taped to the side of the mailbox.

It is advertising tomorrow’s community picnic, featuring home-baked goodies from local residents, a free BBQ, and a bouncy castle for the community’s youngest citizens. Sandor hadn’t been planning on attending, he’s only just moved in, and has thus far managed to avoid conversing with any of his neighbours beyond a few head nods from other dogwalkers out first thing in the morning. This supposed cake intrigues him though. He enjoys a good bit of baking, but he enjoys sex more, and he finds it difficult to fathom the first ever being better than the second.

* * *

The next morning, Sandor has nearly forgotten the whole notion of cake until he is out walking Stranger. He knows they make a fearsome sight in the morning fog, a hulking man with scars across his face walking next to an all-black Great Dane. Stranger tugs at his lead, tail whipping back and forth when he sees another Great Dane across the street. She’s a fawnequin, smaller than Stranger, and she is tugging just as eagerly at her own lead in an effort to come greet them.

The other dog’s owner is standing still, but she smiles and nods at them, so Sandor loosens his grip a bit, lets Stranger lead him over to them. She’s tall, with long reddish-brown hair all wound up in some sort of braid, and her smile reaches all the way to her blue eyes, bluer than the ocean on a clear day.

“Good morning!” she says brightly. Her smile doesn’t falter even a fraction as Sandor gets closer and she sees his scarred face.

“Mornin’.” He grunts in response.

“This is Lady,” she reaches down to stroke her dog’s ears, then stretches her hand out to shake his. “And I’m Sansa. You’re the fellow who moved into the Harren place, right?”

He nods.

“Aye, that’d be me. Sandor.” He shakes her hand gently, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his calloused palm. “And this is Stranger.” He shakes the lead.

The two dogs are circling each other, darting in for sniffs and dancing back out, tails wagging in a slow pendulum.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you both! Will you be at the picnic this evening? There are a few other big dogs in the neighbourhood, and we usually let them have the run of one end of the park, you’re welcome to join us!”

Everything she says sounds like it is meant to end in an exclamation point, her entire countenance is open and friendly, and he suspects that she actually means what she says.

“Aye, alright.” He is surprised to find himself nodding. “I’ll see you then.”

Her delight at this agreement stays with him throughout the day and he wonders briefly if she’s the same Sansa he’d heard referenced at the mailbox yesterday, the one who apparently bakes a cake that is better than sex. He hopes not. A woman that beautiful should never be subject to sex so bad that a bit of flour and egg seems more appealing.

* * *

He mentions running into her when he is on the phone with his friend – and the realtor who helped him with the Harren purchase – Bronn, and Bronn chuckles.

“Oh yeah, I know the gal you mean. She’s one of the wifey’s sorority sisters, just got out of a bit of a lousy situation, actually.”

Sandor hums, hoping Bronn will elaborate but not willing to outright ask for details.

“You’d have to ask Margie for the whole story but she was married to a real piece of work, found out after they’d been married a year that he had a couple of secret kids. She kicked him out a few months ago.”

Sandor hums again, giving no outward sign that he’s mildly relieved to hear she’s single.

There’s a rustle on the other end of the line, and then a woman’s voice is in his ear.

“Sandy, listen, Sansa’s a really lovely girl, you have my wholehearted blessing, but go slowly, okay? Harry really did a number on her self-confidence.”

“Feck off Margaery, I’m not going anywhere slowly or otherwise.”

She laughs, a throaty chuckle. She knows him too damn well.

“Yeah, sure, alright. She likes winter roses, the blue ones. In fact, I think there might be a bush of them in your new backyard!”

The surprise in her voice is entirely manufactured, and he hangs up on her, wishing pettily that he’d been on a landline he could slam down with some satisfactory force.

* * *

Sandor does not make any special effort in getting ready for the picnic. He’d been planning on shaving anyhow, and he’s been meaning to use that cologne his sister got him for his birthday, tonight’s a good a night as any to finally open it, is all. 

He can still hear Margaery’s low chuckle as he snips a blossom off the rosebush in his yard.

He clips Stranger into his harness and they stroll down to the park. The picnic is in full swing when they get there, children and a few small dogs running around two long tables laden with food. There are people sitting on blankets on the grass, but picnic tables are set up as well, and there are a handful of men lounging in tailgate chairs by the barbecue.

Stranger’s attention is divided, the sizzling meat, excited children, and the myriad of other smells and movements fighting for his focus, and he looks up at Sandor, eyes wide as if he’s asking permission to go play with the other kids.

Sandor leads him to the other end of the park, where there are a few people standing around chatting, red cups and paper plates in hand, as their dogs tussle in the grass. Stranger spots Lady and starts to whine, tail beating the air.

Sandor laughs, unclips his lead from his harness, and gives him a pat on the head.

“Aye, go on then, go play with your wee friend.”

Stranger is off like a shot, and he is quickly absorbed into the friendly melée. Sansa notices him and waves, jogging towards him.

“Sandor, I’m so glad you came!”

She looks like she might even mean it.

He holds the rose blossom out to her, noting with some dismay that a few of the outer petals have wilted somewhat from the heat of his hand.

She doesn’t seem to notice though, her entire face lighting up as she accepts the flower.

“Oh, how lovely! These are my favourite, thank you Sandor.”

“Aye, well. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Have you eaten? I hope you’re hungry, there’s plenty of food. Come on, let’s get you a plate.”

She guides him back to the tables of food, explaining what each dish is and who made it, pointing out faces to match. He sees an assortment of desserts and wonders which one is hers. She blushes when he asks what she made, and she points to a cheesecake, glistening creamy white under a berry compote.

There is a small index card propped up against it, a list of ingredients written out in a delicate cursive. And right there, under the ingredients, it says_ better-than-sex cheesecake_. He arches an eyebrow down at her and her blush deepens.

“I know,” she groans “it’s an awful name, but it’s what everyone around here calls it.”

“And is it?” He asks, and then immediately mentally slaps his forehead.

“Is it what?”

In for a penny, he supposes.

“Is it better than sex?”

Her eyes widen briefly and her mouth quirks into a half smile.

“That does seem to be the consensus, yes.”

He cuts himself a thick wedge of the cheesecake and Sansa watches as he takes his first bite.

He’s tempted to make a show of it, to slowly lick the tines of his plastic fork, but this isn’t a 1980’s hair metal music video, and he’s not a video girl, so he just bites, chews, swallows. And it’s good. It’s really good, dense and sweet without being overpowering.

But it’s not fucking better than sex.

“Do you like it?” She asks. She’s still watching him, waiting for his feedback.

“It’s good.” He nods, taking another bite.

“But?” She prompts, hearing the unfinished statement in his voice.

He swallows, puts his plate down. He’s already in for a penny, he may as well be in for a pound. He leans in, his mouth right next to the shell of her ear.

“But if you think it’s better than sex, you’re having sex with the wrong sort of man.”

He hears her breath catch, the slow inhale-exhale as his words work through her. He stands back up, and looks her in the eye. She is looking back at him, a cautious calculating gaze.

“And you’re the right sort of man, are you?”

He shrugs.

“I can be, if you want.”

Her freckles stand out amid the flush on her cheeks, and he wants to draw lines between them with his tongue.

She doesn’t respond to his suggestion right away, her attention drawn away by the two great danes loping up to them. She kneels down, giving them both a nuzzle.

Standing up, she fastens Lady’s leash to her collar, holds her hand out to Sandor.

“Walk us home?”

He hastens to put his still-full plate down, clips Stranger onto his lead, and takes Sansa’s small hand in his own oversized mitt.

When they get to Sansa’s door, she turns to face him. He is right next to her, and her lips are suddenly very close to his.

Sandor takes a step back, but she puts her hand on his waist, toys with the fabric of his shirt.

“We should really test out your theory, if only for the sanctity of my cake’s name.” she murmurs, her eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up to meet his gaze.

He nods gravely.

“Oh aye, we wouldn’t want your cake to have an inaccurate name.”

She laughs at that, leads him inside. The dogs are distracted with large marrow bones, and she takes him by the hand, leading him upstairs to her bedroom.

Door latched firmly behind them; he spends the entire night educating her on just how good sex can be with the right person.

* * *

At the next community picnic, the cheesecake makes another appearance. This time, the title card reads “_almost-as-good cheesecake”_.


End file.
